I don't know what you mean
by Arrice
Summary: ..comicverse/Nolanverse crossover.. This Batman is nothing like Tim’s own. He’s all big brown eyes, too-complex armor, and…he grins.


~&

This Batman is nothing like Tim's own. He's all big brown eyes, too-complex armor, and…he grins. When does Batman ever grin? Tim feels way too far out of his comfort zone, not that he minds at all. The guy is pretty handsome, despite not having blue eyes.

Robin leans back a bit on the edge of the plain skyscraper the duo have taken residence on for their conversation. Where are all the gargoyles in this Gotham?

"Tell me again," Bruce doesn't even brother to use the gruff Batman voice.

"If it doesn't make sense the first five times, it probably won't make a difference this time."

"You're right, I'm just curious. You're his partner?"

"What? You think he should have never allowed me to be a part of his mission?" Tim scowls at the man.

"Batman doesn't need a partner."

"That's what he said, then he realized he *did*. Not that *you* do." He raises a gauntleted hand, making his point. "I mean, it seems to me, you're doing perfectly fine with your tank, and your grainy Batvoice."

"Why does everyone think it's a tank?"

"How couldn't they? It's not exactly a subtle vehicle."

"What does he drive?"

"A car. A really menacing car. But, it's not a tank."

Brown-eyed Batman frowns, and yeah, it's still nothing like *his* Bruce.

Batman looks away for a bit, his cape swirling around his crouching figure.

"Do you also do the thing where you go out with women and the whole thing is just *fake*?" Robin says it out of nowhere.

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"Maybe you do need a sidekick. Then you have an excuse for not having a date. At least you'll be with someone *enjoyable*."

"He does that?"

"All the time. He just drags me along as an excuse for *everything*. It means he can get away from the parties sooner."

"He really--"

"Doesn't like being Bruce Wayne," Tim finishes. "He likes sitting down in the Cave, practicing, checking up on the gangs, working on his tech, testing me. He doesn't have fun. Ever. Though I have gotten him to smile a few times…really smile. And maybe chuckle."

God, Bruce realizes him and his alternate have more in common the more Tim talks about him. He wonders if the Alfreds are like that, too.

"Is he a good father?"

Tim shifts uncomfortably, Bruce can tell it's kind of a sore subject. "He's…something. He's not exactly a pro at the parent game, though you think he should be after raising two kids." Batman's about to say something, "They were Wards. Don't worry."

"And you?"

"He adopted me. Dick…the first Robin, wasn't exactly cheery about it in the beginning. Jason doesn't like me."

"Do you like your life?"

"I love being Robin. I'm still not sure how I feel about being Tim Wayne." The teen lowers his head, wraps the black and yellow of his cape around his torso. "It's tough. You have it easy right now. Just wait till you've been doing *this* a few years. The longer it is, the harder it gets."

Bruce doesn't really understand what the kid means by that. He shifts a bit closer and thinks about it.

~&

Tim Drake-Wayne (god, he still can't believe that) shouldn't be here. Not in his loft, not in his Gotham or his Earth. Tim explains the whole thing like he's a pro at it, and Bruce's head is already spinning, too many words, too many…everything.

He takes another drink of his coffee, watches the brightly colored teenager over the rim of his glass. The teen's blue eyes are focusing on yesterday's issue of the Gotham Gazette, beautiful blue eyes.

Bruce slams down the mug harder then he meant to, Tim looks at him, grins a bit then goes back to his reading.

This needs to end…whatever it is, Bruce doesn't understand anything about it, he just wants the kid to go back to his Gotham and his oh-so-perfect Batman.

No, he doesn't really mean that.

Not as harshly as that. Tim probably misses his Bruce, they are partners and family after all.

Bruce tries not to focus on that.

"So…," Tim's staring at him again, and Bruce realizes he doesn't really have anything to say. He clears his throat and hears Tim get up, coffee mug and all.

The teen walks towards the spectacular view of Gotham, runs his free hand, still gloved in tight black leather, against the large pane of glass.

Bruce watches him for a moment, then decides to follow. He slides his hands into the pockets of his black slacks and stands behind the teenage sidekick.

"I don't like it," Tim says absentmindedly.

"Don't like what?"

Robin's looking at him from the glass, eyes slightly wide, and so blue without the white-out lenses blocking out the color. "This Gotham. It's too different. Unfamiliar."

"Sometimes, unfamiliar things can be good."

Tim turns around and Bruce thinks maybe he's too close, but the teen doesn't twitch, just looks up into the man's eyes, "Only if you know how to use them."

"What did you mean earlier?" Bruce blurts it out, doesn't mean to, and Tim almost flinches.

"By what?"

"The harder it gets."

"Maybe you'll…" Tim pauses and sidesteps out of the man's personal space, makes his way towards the counter where they were before.

"What?"

Tim sighs and places his mug onto the marble countertop. "It's nothing."

Tim's getting more confusing after each conversation, and Bruce is still a bit lost by the whole fiasco. The teen seems a bit distant, unlike any other person Bruce has met. He's a little bit like Ra's in the way he likes to speak in riddles and subtleties and subtext.

Bruce sighs and continues to look out into Gotham.

He doesn't want to look anymore.

~& idon'tknowwhatyoumean three

Tim can't brood in the corner down in the bunker, there's too much light, so he just leans against the Tumbler, cape skirting around his ankles.

Bruce knows Tim can understand why the man would rather be down here at times like this. He continues his work at the small console, doesn't bother to look at his house guest.

"You know," Tim interrupts, "there was a time Bruce moved into his own loft in Gotham. The manor wasn't destroyed. But he thought that if he moved into the city…being closer to the people he swore to protect…would be better."

Bruce doesn't have anything to say about that. If the manor was still standing he wouldn't be here right now, in some secret underground bunker, in the light…with Tim.

"He later decided to move back into his parent's home."

"Did he retract his statement?"

"I don't know," Tim says, "I wasn't around him then."

Tim's really starting to confuse him. It's like the kid knows everything about his Bruce, even everything before his time as the man's sidekick. He doesn't question it.

He turns around and Tim's perching on one of the Tumbler's wheels, perfectly content, and looking comfortable. He shifts his head, watches Bruce slide his hand from the keyboard, listens to the hum of the super computer's fans.

Bruce walks towards him, Tim shifts off the tire, leans with one booted foot on the ground like he's half pin-up instead of half bird, and lets Bruce back into his space.

"That thing you said about unfamiliar things…" He pauses, hesitates, pouts for a short moment, then runs a gloved hand over Bruce's cheek. "Is this what you meant?"

Bruce should back away…grab his wrist, remove his hand…anything to get Tim away. Make Tim understand…

He can't.

That's what he tells himself, but Tim's still looking at him with curious wide eyes, warm leather against the man's cheek.

"I don't--"

"You do."

~&

When Bruce manages to get them back to the loft without a panic attack, he wants to congratulate himself. But instead, he finds he wants to be in Tim's space again, and run away back into the night dressed to nines, find a purse snatcher, rapist, and take his *frustration* out on them.

But he won't.

He can't.

It shouldn't matter. It's not like Tim is meant to stay here. It was some great cosmic fluke. And yeah, it all started off nice and friendly, but the further the night has progressed…Bruce doesn't know what the kid means by any of it. Bruce doesn't know why the teen is looking at him with those blue eyes.

Why can't he put the domino back on?

Tim hoists himself up onto the countertop, doesn't take his eyes off Bruce, who's all dressed in black, trying to blend in with the shadow that is too out of reach for the light.

"Bruce…"

It's the first time Tim has actually referred to *him* as being Bruce, actually said his name all night. It's almost scares the man, because, yeah, now he can see that it's all way bigger then anybody ever thought it was.

"Stop it."

"What?"

"Brooding. It's not very becoming for billionaire playboys."

"I'm not--"

"I know."

"I still don't understand."

"Then stop *trying* to understand."

Tim says it like it's the simplest concept in the world, like by saying it, Bruce will just do it.

But he doesn't.

He can't.

Not when Tim shouldn't be here, sitting on the kitchen counter in his loft, eyeballing him, talking to him like he has all the answers, though maybe the answers aren't completely right.

He can hear Tim's two-toned cape shifting on the counter; he looks up and realizes the teen has abandoned it to walk towards the man.

Tim puts his hand on Bruce's cheek again, smiles, and steps as close as he can.

"Can we get back to that thought about unfamiliar things?"

The point where Bruce…ran away. Though not quite, because Tim is back right where he was before, waiting for Bruce to actually *make* the point. And, yeah, he'll probably never have a chance like his again. He never will, even though he feels closer to Tim in a night then he has with some people in years.

The teen removes his hand, and opts for removing his black leather gloves, complete with matching scallops like on Bruce's costume. Tim throws them to the floor, curves his palms on Bruce's neck.

"Hey, didn't I say that was unbecoming?"

Bruce allows his hands to find Tim's waist, draped in red, the bottoms of his hands sitting on the top of his utility belt.

"Tim…"

"We don't need words, if you don't want them."

He kisses Tim because it's the simplest thing that's happened all night. Simple, like the red of his suit, and the slight blush on his cheeks.

~&

Tim leads like he knows what he's doing, must know, because he's so sure about the whole thing. He's sure to lay his belt away from them, starts undoing his suit, a less tedious process then it is for Bruce. He has to get up to slip off the body suit. Then he crawls back over to the man, eyes slightly lidded.

It's the first time Bruce has had someone here in his bed, a bed he hardly ever finds himself in.

He finds Tim's hips again, scarred in a few places, notices a distinguished mark across his throat, rubs a finger against it.

"Funny you went for that one."

Tim watches him, straddling his thighs. He can see the questioning in Bruce's expression, but just says, "it's a long story, and oh, no words." Tim grins and leans forward onto Bruce's chest kisses him lightly, fingers the hem of the man's shirt. Bruce gets up enough, Tim can slip it off of him, then get his hands onto the man's barely scarred chest.

It scares Bruce that Tim has so *many*, but it's none of his concern. He kisses the teen again, wraps a hand around his waist and flips them over onto the white of the comforter. Tim laughs a bit, works on Bruce's pants, grins when he gets them undone, lays speechless when the man gets them off.

Tim kisses him hard, wraps himself up in Bruce, drags a hand through his almost-perfect hair, groans against the man's lips then smirks and comes back for more.

Bruce can't stop skating his hands over the teen, dark scars a perfect contrast to the milky color of his skin.

It's all become so simple with Tim leading his hands down slowly and finding the perfect spot to make the teen arch and moan.

Tim bites down on his lip, draws Bruce up closer by the nape of his neck. He lets the man take over; he places Tim's arms above his head, bites down at the crook of his neck. Let's Tim ride it out till he rests his head against the white pillow case, wraps his legs tighter around Bruce's waist, urges him further.

~&

Bruce is awed by how well their bodies fit together, like two puzzle pieces. Tim groans but doesn't break their vow of silence, stays as close to Bruce as he can, lets the man flip them, over and over again, to perfect contact.

Tim lies openmouthed against the man's collarbone, whimpers again with the next movement, grazes his hand past a suture on Bruce's lower back. The man almost loses his way, kissing down Tim's body, finding all the points that make him twitch with pleasure, almost moan out Bruce's name.

The teen's stomach is already wet from the both of them, Bruce doesn't let it become an obstacle, licks his way down Tim's abdominals and kisses his tiny belly button. Tim giggles and places his hands on Bruce's head; he's at that point again where the laughter turns into moans and whimpers when Bruce turns away from him, grabs the bottle of lube that's waiting to be used again.

Tim lets him, Tim lets him do anything he wants, just consents silently to the man's needs. He knows Bruce has been without this for too long, just like his own Bruce, who sits silently in his sanctuary, doesn't desire this sort of thing.

But he can already see that the sex has evened Bruce out, he's less tense then when they started the thing hours ago. Bruce manages to smile against Tim's sticky skin in his inner thigh where a particularly nasty scar is, the man is almost tempted to ask how the teen got is, but he'd rather watch Tim's mouth fall open again when Bruce does that thing with his fingers.

Bruce realizes the point has been made by the next time he makes Tim curl up, post-orgasm. The teen has his eyes closed, breathes heavily against the too-expensive pillow covers, listens as Bruce finishes up.

The man curls up next to him, kisses the nape of his neck and draws him in closer. Tim shifts, lets them lay chest to chest, kisses Bruce one last time, and falls asleep curled up in his arm, head resting against his chest.

Tim is beautiful when he sleeps, like the pain of the world doesn't matter.

He sleeps silently, shifts a few times, Bruce finds the teen's lips pushed against the side of one pectoral. He wraps his other arm around the teen, drifts off because it all seems too simple.

~&

The bed doesn't feel warm anymore by the time Alfred brings in breakfast.

"Glad to see you in bed this morning, Master Wayne." The older man places the tray down on the nightstand, watches in confusion as Bruce gets up and looks in every part of the room like he's lost something. Maybe his mind, because he can't find the person he went to sleep with.

"Master Wayne?"

"Where is he, Alfred?"

"Who, sir?"

"Tim."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"*Tim*, Alfred…*Tim*." Bruce tries not to get that hint of annoyance in his voice, but the teen is missing.

"Sir, you did not wake up with anyone in bed, nor did I see traces of anyone else in the loft."

Bruce runs a hand through his hair, mussed from sleep and last nights events…if they even happened.

"He was here, Alfred. I went to sleep with him, I talked with him all night. I took him to the bunker. You can't tell me *no one* was here." Bruce closes his brown eyes and sighs about the situation, but then hurriedly checks around the floor. No Robin costume. He checks the bed for proof of their deeds. There, the sheets are practically ruined.

"How do you explain the *bed* then?"

"Sexual tension, sir?"

"You think I'm making it all up."

"Well, sir…I'm not really sure *what* to think."

"You think I would make up a *boy* out of thin air, and ruin my own sheets?"

"Master Wayne, I do not know what your fantasies are, the only proof I can offer is that no one has been in this loft except *you* and *me*."

Bruce huffs, feels defeated, turns his head and notices something black peeking out from under a pillow. He quickly grabs it and raises it up from Alfred to see.

"This is Tim's. He left it."

"Sir--"

"It really did happen…," Bruce looks intently at the lenses of the mask, the sharps points of the domino and cradles it a bit closer to his chest. "I don't understand."

"Master Wayne, you've completely lost me. Now, I don't know what *that* is, but it--"

"It doesn't have to make sense, Alfred. It simply *is*," Bruce interrupts.

"Sir, I don't know what you mean."

~end


End file.
